


Say You Will

by Celesma



Series: The Virtuous Woman [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celesma/pseuds/Celesma
Summary: Sam stared at her incredulously. "You're really going to ignore all of this? Lilith, the end of the world, you being the virtuous woman?"Bela wasn't prepared to leave hell. She was even less prepared to be told by an angel that she was destined to save the world—leave that to the people stupid enough to believe the world deserved saving. All she wanted was to be far away from demons and back in the lap of luxury. But fate has other plans, and apparently those plans include throwing her lot in with Sam Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel & Bela Talbot, Sam Winchester/Bela Talbot
Series: The Virtuous Woman [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611997
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second story in my "Righteous Woman" AU series. I was inspired to begin writing again after reading a very good alternate S04 series, [Bela, Rising](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458268) by [bandedbulbussnarfblat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandedbulbussnarfblat/pseuds/bandedbulbussnarfblat).
> 
> This series is not a perfect canon divergence; for example, Pamela does not appear, Sam answers his phone when Bobby contacts him and so is present to meet Castiel, and Castiel explains the "righteous (wo)man" lore to Sam and Bela right away. This is because when I posted the first story, "The Virtuous Woman," I had no intention of taking it further and intended for it to stand entirely on its own. As such, many details were erased/streamlined to make room for the emotional story beats that I wanted to present.
> 
> I don't have any guarantee that this series will be updated regularly (or even finished), but I promise to do my best to keep it going.

"It was His will that you should be saved, Bela Talbot. You were judged to be the Righteous One."

Bela Talbot stared at the two dark wings that flashed on and off behind the man on the warehouse's far wall. To her eyes they moved like colors that wished to spill out beyond the weak lines that confined them—her mind madly called up a picture of her own eight-year-old hand slashing crayon all over the loving Cottontail family in a Beatrix Potter coloring book while her mother's _Dateline London_ blared on the telly—and it could only be the incredible restraint of the creature wielding them that kept them from breaking free, consuming reality as she knew it. Even before the words of the man

_(angel)_

could sink in and confuse her beyond all belief, she considered those alien shapes. Had she really been close enough to touch them, once? And if so, how could she have ever forgotten?  
  
Her lips, at least, seemed to understand Castiel's words. Or the surface of them. "What's so righteous about me?" they uttered, and it was several seconds before she even knew what she was saying.

Castiel looked at her, expressionless. "You know," he said.

Sam was knelt at Bobby's side, checking the old man's vitals. Satisfied that he had a pulse, the young hunter stumbled to his feet and limped towards the angel, holding the arm that he had been using to cast the exorcism spell. ( _Did_ you need to raise your arm to do an exorcism? Bela knew she was rusty after forty years in the underworld, but she didn't remember anyone doing that, not unless they were trying to be bloody neat.) His footsteps slowed as he approached, until finally he was standing over Castiel. The height difference was irrelevant to Bela, who saw merely an ant crouching in the shadow of a leviathan; and as Sam grew closer, she knew he must have felt the same, because his expression now was different, humble and afraid.

Sam looked at him for a long moment, which Castiel bore patiently. "You really are an angel," he finally breathed.

And then fell to his knees. Bela started towards him, thinking it was a mistake, he was hurt more badly than she'd thought—but then his eyes turned up towards Castiel in wonder, and he hugged his broken arm closer to himself in an imploring, prayerful gesture.

"Did you... could you bring back Dean?" he asked, almost innocently, that terrible look of reverence still haunting his eyes. "My brother," he said, although Castiel looked as if he needed no explanation. "He was taken to hell when he wasn't supposed to. He—it was my fault."

The angel's face changed. Bela had never met a creature that was at once so cold—like stone carved in the image of a man—yet so quickly affected by human pathos. She was instantly possessed of the conviction that this wasn't something the angel was happy about. Not if her last experience taught her anything.

"Sam," he said, and already the answer looked like _no._ Bela averted her eyes. Not soon enough. The look on Sam Winchester's face was enough to make someone with a heart weep.

Castiel seemed to be considering his words: almost as if he was trying to find words simple enough for the humans to understand. "Many were subsumed in the harrowing of hell," he finally allowed. "Demons alone cannot kill an angel, but there are many traps. We could only save one soul, the person prophesied to stop Lilith." He shook his head. "I am sorry, Sam."

"Then take me back in his place," Sam begged. "Can't you do that? A fair trade? You couldn't—"

The angel shook his head again. "I could not."

Sam's expression froze, almost like the answer couldn't penetrate, couldn't be accepted... and then his head fell, and silent tears streamed down his face. Whatever Sam Winchester was, Bela suddenly realized, he was a true believer. (Well, a lot of hunters were. What of it? Hard to be an atheist when your everyday life was lousy with demons and ghosts and the lot of it. It made them very annoying to be around.) She was still surprised when an unfamiliar feeling swelled in her chest, caught in her throat. It took her a moment to realize what she was feeling— _outrage, sorrow._

Sam had never done anything wrong. He had only ever tried to save people (another annoying fact about hunters). And now these angels were going to deny him this one thing? When they brought back _her_ , an unapologetic criminal?

She opened her mouth, maybe to make that very point, but Castiel was speaking again.

"I have two messages for you," he said. Apparently it was no trouble for him to change subjects when a speck of a human was crying at his feet, after all but telling him that his brother was still burning in hell. How very _devoted_ of him. "The first: Lilith is moving to wage a full-scale war against humanity. Even as we speak, she is breaking seals throughout the world, seals that would keep the earth from plunging into a cataclysm of death and destruction. Heaven's armies are doing all they can to stop her, but Lilith works in the shadows—out of reach of our light—and we need more help. We sought revelation in a prophecy that spoke of a righteous human in hell, one who could stop Lilith and avert the coming disaster. If male, he would be the Righteous Man. If female, the Virtuous Woman."

Bela's guts twisted—the capitalization in those words could not be more obvious. Or unwanted. "And you chose me?" she said, her words nearly a scream. "You couldn't save..." _Dean Winchester..._ "Someone else? Someone with an actual track record for suicidal heroics?"

Those blue eyes met her coldly. Electricity flooded her mouth. "We didn't _choose_ you," the angel said. "God did. All we were required to do was carry out the order, and we did. I lost brothers and sisters in that assault. Every day, I lose more of my garrison to Lilith's schemes. I would ask you not to give me reasons to second-guess my faith in you."

Bela gave a dry laugh—mostly because she couldn't think of anything to say to that. _An angel putting his faith in humans. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Aren't you supposed to be the ones protecting **us?**_ It seemed Castiel had already tired of her, though, because he turned away to regard Sam, who hadn't risen from his kneeling position.

"And now the second message." And the angel bent down to meet Sam, touched his broken arm. The young hunter exhaled with surprise as power went into him—even Bela could feel it from here—and then he was rolling his injured arm around in its socket, stretching his fingers wide. Castiel's own came down and closed around them. Sam looked up, startled.

"It was fortuitous that you found each other," Castiel told him. "Sam, you also have a part to play in this prophecy. Helping Bela will be your redemption. And these things that you do in secret... you must stop. It is against the will of Heaven."

Bela did not understand—but Sam did, because he blinked and turned white, staring up into Castiel's face like a guilty child. "I..." The angel squeezed his fingers and pulled him to his feet with no more effort than if the tall hunter was a paper doll. "You mean—"

"Yes." Castiel returned his gaze earnestly. "You must understand. Not only your physical wellbeing, but your soul is in danger. If you do not cease your activities, the angels will be forced to take action."

He said all this as casually as if he was discussing the weather. Not that Bela believed angels could discuss even the weather with ease—probably they weren't capable of making anything not look like some divine proclamation—but she felt this was the closest this angel was going to get. Sam, for his part, looked like he'd been slapped in the face. He took a step back.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he said dumbly, to which the angel nodded with satisfaction.

"You will await orders," he told them. His steel-blue eyes turned upon Bela once more. "Be prepared for war."

And just like that. He intended to leave them. "Wait," Sam cried out, but a trailer of wind swept over them—the beating, Bela later realized, of thousands of invisible feathers—and Castiel was gone. A moment later the biggest peal of thunder Bela had ever heard crashed around them, and the rain came down. When she looked up, the half of the warehouse wall that was missing had been restored to wholeness. It was like he had never been there... only she could still see it, clinging to the undersides of her eyelids, the impression of huge huge wings she had once seen in the flesh.

"He makes an entrance, figures he would make an exit," she grumbled. Sam must have known the unflappableness was manufactured, though, because his huge frame bent nearly in half and his hands lowered to clutch his knees. For a long moment he didn't say anything. He looked like he was having trouble breathing. Then:

"Will you wake up Bobby?" He still hadn't straightened up. "I'm sorry," he added. "It's just.. _._ my God.That was a real—"

Bela wasn't sticking around to hear the rest of that born-again revelation. She walked over to Bobby, still knocked out cold from whatever the angel had done. "Get up, old man," she said gently, shaking him by the shoulder, and Bobby came awake slowly at her touch, blinking and peering around like he was in a bed with silk sheets and feather pillows, not lying on the cold hard floor of a warehouse covered ceiling to floor in occult graffiti. Once he became fully aware of Sam and Bela standing over him, the old man snapped to attention, scrambling to his feet and reaching into his vest for one of his (many, too damn many) weapons.

"Where is he?" he demanded. "Where's the..."

He stopped, didn't know how to fill in that blank, so Bela helpfully did it for him. "The angel?" she said. Sam glared at her; apparently he'd planned on breaking the news in some breathless and dramatic fashion. "Oh, he's gone. Flew in, had a nice chat, told us the world was ending. Didn't even stay for a cup of tea—pity."

Bobby's mouth worked soundlessly as he struggled to process the first thing. Probably he hadn't heard anything after the word _angel._ "The _what_?" he finally said. He looked pissed off, like she was playing him for an obvious fool.

Bela sighed and opened her mouth again, but Sam held up a hand. "It was an angel, Bobby," he said. "Castiel's an angel."

"An ang..." Bobby's head shook erratically on his neck. At first Bela thought it was from renewed disbelief, but too late she realized it was anger rather than shock that animated the cords in the old man's neck. "He's an angel, and he didn't save _Dean_?" His voice darkened with outrage on the last word. Practically concussed, and his heart still went straight to the older brother. "Demons I could understand, ghosts and monsters and tricksters, sure, but an honest-to-God _angel_ that's supposed to know the difference between _right and_ _wrong—"_

"He wasn't exactly Hallmark," Bela put in. Bobby didn't seem to hear her.

"Tell me he at least said he'd help you." Sam's wet eyes would have been all the answer he needed, but the older hunter persisted, desperate for some scrap of good news. "That Dean's not... not..."

Sam was silent. Bobby's face creased with forlorn anger, but before he could launch into a fresh diatribe against divine injustice Sam began to shake his head.

"How are you feeling, Bobby?"

Shockingly, the old man's mouth snapped closed and he blinked several times. It seemed he'd picked up what Sam was laying down. His hand rose to seek the back of his neck, almost sheepishly. "Not bad, to tell you the truth. Feels like I slept for a week. Or like I woke up five years younger. Whatever whammy your angel laid on me..."

The pattering of rain on the roof rose to a pounding. Thunder boomed again, so loud and emphatic—nature's exclamation mark—that it seemed to rock the building. That lingering taste of ozone and electricity still coated Bela's teeth and tongue, unwelcome reminders of the angel's visit. Bobby heaved a deep sigh and adjusted his faded old baseball cap, pulling it down so tight on his head that half his face disappeared.

"Angels, huh. Every time an angel showed up in the Bible, it was either 'cause it had really good news or really bad news," he said. Whatever theological or moral concerns the old man was prepared to wrestle with, he had apparently decided in the moment on the expedience of moving on. In Bobby Singer's world, angels now existed and that was that. And damned if he cared much for this Castiel. He peered at them darkly from beneath the brim of his cap. "And looking at you two now, it don't seem to me like your angel was here to announce the return of Jesus."  
  
"Um, the opposite, actually," Bela offered. "He said Lilith was going to end the world and I'm the only one who can stop her."

"That's not what he said," Sam said, crossing his arms. Then, more hesitantly: "Not exactly."  
  
Bobby blanched. He looked like he wanted to thrust them into his beat-up old clunker and drive them a thousand miles away from here—whatever got them out of the crosshairs of Castiel and the demon who had sent Dean to hell. Bela couldn't say she didn't feel exactly the same way, but already she had the sick feeling there was no getting out of this: that there would be no escaping Castiel and the mandates of his god. "Tell me everything," the old man said. "What's Lilith got planned? Is this anything like what went down in Cold Oak?"

Sam swallowed hard at the mention of Cold Oak—or so Bela assumed; she'd heard from the other side soon enough just what exactly had led Dean Winchester to make his extremely ill-fated deal, had pushed Gordon Walker to launch his obsessed manhunt—but slowly moved his head in the negative. "I don't know," he said. "He didn't really explain much. He just said that Lilith was planning to start a war with humanity, and that Heaven was trying to stop her, but they needed Bela. That's why she was saved. She's, um, the Virtuous Woman, according to their prophecy." One could practically smell the doubt rolling off Bobby like whiskey fumes upon hearing that, and the young hunter hastily explained the rest, only pausing to glare when he got to the part about being prophesied to help Bela and was smugly told _looks like you're the Robin to my Batman, Winchester._

"We were told to wait for angelic orders," he finished. The young hunter's face pulled into a wince as he tested his arm, but it still seemed as whole and unbroken as when Castiel had first healed it. "Even so, we probably want to get ahead of all this—figure out what these seals are—so maybe we should head back to your place and start doing some research..." He motioned for the door, still marveling at his unbroken arm.

Bobby's expression was wary, weary. "How can we trust him? We don't have anything to go on but his word."

"He knew Bela," Sam said. Bela straightened like the thunderstorm had volleyed a bolt of lightning right down her spine, and he turned a questing look upon her. "He said you two had met before, right? Only he wasn't in his _human vessel_ , then. I didn't understand what he meant... damn it. He left and I still had so many questions..."

Bobby was looking at Bela now, too. "Explain," he demanded. It made Bela feel surly and uncooperative. Rather, _more_ surly and uncooperative.

"Explain what?" she muttered. "I barely remember. I just know—"

_That wasn't his real body. Not the human one. It's just a container. The **real** thing—the real thing would kill us all._

The knowledge leaped into her mind with absolute certainty, like knowing that the sky was blue or that the sum of one and one equaled two. She nearly choked on it. Bela's gaze lowered until it landed on her filthy boots.

"He can't speak to us in his true form," she murmured. She felt uncharacteristically chastened, like a child; and she could fill the familiar fear and wonder (entirely unwanted) filling up her head like a wineglass. She attempted to move sideways of the memory of him, unwilling that she should look directly upon it. "His true form... it makes people go blind and deaf." _Just like what happened to those demons._ "He has to borrow a human form—condescend to a human level—if he wants to communicate... it's the only way he can talk without hurting us." She raised her eyes, meeting the two hunters' stunned stares. "I was only able to handle the sight of him because I was supposed to be special."

The silence would have been deafening but for the impatient, hammering fists of the rain on the warehouse roof. Sam looked utterly gobsmacked, while Bobby's expression subsided by slow degrees into his typical grumpy countenance. "Hell," the older hunter finally said, rudely. "This is way above my pay grade. And using humans as vessels? How's that any different from what demons do?"

"It's not," Bela said darkly, at the same moment that Sam managed to stutter out something like _hold on, we don't know the whole story_. She turned to glare, but there was little heat in it, and she found that she was suddenly, inexpressibly tired.

_But then, who wouldn't be? I'm supposed to stop Lilith? Protect the world? All I want to do is go **home** —_

Summoning Castiel had been a terrible mistake. The worst she'd ever made, after the demon deal.

"If you two want to sit around discussing it, be my guest," she said. "I've had enough."

* * *

Bela found Sam outside the warehouse, leaning against his brother's Impala on the rain-slick pavement. Conveniently, the storm had halted as quickly as it had started, and Sam's broad back lit up yellow in the bank of lights illuminating the carpark in a fine and ethereal mist. It was only nine o'clock, but meeting a creature that was literally invincible and claimed to work for God while announcing a nebulously-defined war with the demon that had sent her to hell had seemed to hasten the clock towards midnight. _The witching hour._ Bobby had gone ahead of them in his car, already hoping to wrangle every last book in his library on angels, demons, and holy wars. There hadn't even seemed to be a question that they were going to try to stop Lilith, with or without her. Sam's back bent momentarily and he straightened with a sigh, replacing the last of his weapons in the Impala's boot and bringing the lid down hard.

He turned, blinked when he saw Bela standing there. Bela froze—she thought she saw tears blinking out of those hazel eyes. "Let me guess," he said, and his voice was steady. "You stole a car?"

_Must have imagined it._ Bela quirked an eyebrow at him in response, and he sighed again. "Need a ride?"

"No," she said automatically, but she didn't fancy going back the way she'd come in the same vehicle she'd arrived in. Not when demons could still possess cops and find out exactly which stolen cars to be on the lookout for. Sam made a disgusted sound and threw open the passenger door.

"Don't make me ask twice."

Bela's eyes narrowed to slits. She didn't trust it. At the same time— "Isn't this violating one of your nonsensical moral codes?" she ventured, taking a step forward. "Like _sleeping with the enemy_?"

She took devious pleasure in the flush that spread across Sam's face, but he recovered quickly. "Well, yeah," he said with a shrug. And then: "Look, if Castiel was right and you're the one destined to put down Lilith, it would be incredibly stupid of me to let you get killed." He raised his hand in what he apparently thought a reasonable gesture. "Plus—and this is just a crazy guess—someone probably wants their car back. You know, you could have taken one of Bobby's. They're not all junked for parts."

"I didn't want to put him out," Bela said sweetly. She still didn't move.

"Sure." Sam went around the hood and got into the driver's seat—leisurely, unhurried, just as if he'd never broken his leg less than thirty minutes ago. (Despite the world they inhabited, some part of that made Bela want to scream.) He left the passenger side open. Bela's lip curled as she imagined hitchhiking— _imagined the first person to pick her up shooting her a black-eyed grin before driving them both off a cliff_ —and then she was stepping into Dean Winchester's car, enveloped in the warm womb of chrome and leather and (undoubtedly) horrid rock music tapes.

The Impala had an interesting smell about it. Once she had settled in fully and clicked her seatbelt in, she sensed a soft and pleasant scent that was distinctly Sam Winchester. Thank God it was too dark in here to be seen clearly; now she was the one flushing. She couldn't smell the other brother—just as well, because she probably would have bolted—but there was something _under_ Sam, too, something like burning whiskey or the smell of a body slowly rotting, drowned in gallons of antiseptic fluid to conceal it. Bela swallowed hard; even as the analogy came to her she knew it wasn't right. Not exactly. There was no bottle or body in here. Sam kept his brother's car spotless.

It still smelled like there had been a demon in here.

It took her a moment to realize Sam hadn't keyed the ignition. That probably should have scared her, but instead she just tipped him a look. Sam's hands were positioned on the wheel at three and nine o'clock, right next to a mounted iPod queued up to play "Everywhere" by Fleetwood Mac (so not _all_ terrible music, she thought with fleeting pleasure). He was staring at the dashboard, his eyes free of tears but still filled with something unreadable.

"Is there a problem?" Bela asked. Sardonically. "Need a friendly reminder on how cars work?"

"No, Bela," Sam muttered. "I'm just thinking."

"How about you think and drive." Sam ignored her. Another moment passed in which he continued to fail to make himself useful by turning the key a half-inch to the right. Bela nearly reached out and did it for him, when he suddenly said:

"I'm sorry."

Bela's hand dropped in midair. "What?" she said.

He turned, caught her with his eyes. For an instant the old cliche came true and her heart actually leaped to her throat. "You really want to hear it twice?" he said.

"Not especially, no," she muttered. "My question was more like _why._ "

"Because..." Sam's eyes flickered away again, and he sighed. "All that stuff I said to you. I really didn't mean to say it. I was—upset."

She protested, even as she knew the proper Talbot response to a Winchester apology was to roll around in it like a pig in shite. "But what you said... wasn't wrong." Her voice fell to a pathetic whisper as she said it.

Already, Sam was shaking his head. "Doesn't matter. If I'm going to let you in Ba—Dean's car, then I might as well go all the way. I might as well just... let you in."

_What the hell, Sam,_ Bela thought, and then she said it. "Are you coming on to me? What is this tripe?"

"Wha—no!" Sam's eyes widened to dinner plates and his voice screeched, actually _screeched_ like he'd regressed ten years in age. Bela was too rattled to even remotely enjoy it. "I'm just trying to apologize! Because as bad as you were, I never thought you deserved to go to hell, and I never should have suggested... I never should have _said_ that you deserved to still be there. That was a terrible thing to say."

Bela stared. He was still looking at her, his expression pained and utterly without design. 

So this was... _real_? Someone was sorry for something they did to her, and they didn't want something afterward _(money, magic, a fuck)._ Bela had never—not once—heard its like. Much less did she expect to hear it from the man who _should_ have hated her, because she was out and Dean wasn't. For an instant she had no idea what to do. At length her head tipped forward and a small, flighty laugh pushed past her lips. "I accept your apology," she said, her voice as stiff as her nod. "I would have also accepted you coming on to me," she added, hoping to see some further embarrassment from the younger Winchester.

Sam kept his wits about him this time. "Sure, Bela," he said brusquely. His face was softening; and while a real apology was one thing, wasn't bad at all, what was happening on his face now was a very bad sign, tipping too much away from hatred and disgust, too much _the other way_ , towards something she could neither predict nor take refuge in. Something she could never rely on. Pain bloomed in her chest so deeply that she cut him off even as he started to say:

"I can't begin to imagine—"

_"Don't."_ She pinned him with one eye. One word. "Don't."

To his credit, he took orders well. "The angels, then," he said. Even the stricken recognition in his eyes that he'd harmed her was painful to her. But the angels were better territory. Safer.

Even if she was doing her damnedest not to believe in them or their insane mission.

As if to belabor the point, she said, "You really believe that malarkey?"

Which was, of course, idiotic. Even Sam was regarding her incredulously.

"After what we saw? What _you_ saw? How could you not believe it?"

He sounded like a little boy: if Sam Winchester had ever been allowed to be a little boy. Bela wasn't sure he had. The sound he made occupied some strange territory between joyful and terrified. (And somewhere far beneath that—although she didn't know how she knew it— _ashamed_.) Bela checked a sigh; despite what she professed, everything _had_ felt different after Castiel, continued to feel different. Even her skin was still pebbly with gooseflesh.

"He could have been something else. Like an _actual_ salesman. Only he was trying to sell us on his religion."

"He healed me," Sam said, awed.

No wonder he pined after that sociopath brother of his. The boy had Stockholm Syndrome in all but name. "Yes, after he broke your arm and leg," Bela reminded him. "What a saint, that Castiel."

Sam's brow crinkled. He looked like a big dumb golden retriever when he did that. "You really don't believe it?" And then, in the answering silence: "You're really just going to ignore all of this? Lilith, the end of the world, you being the _virtuous woman_?" Bela wanted to hiss like her cat Hyzenthlay being submerged in water at the last, hearing something so patently sentimental (and just _why_ was Sam so ready and willing to lap this up, anyway), but it wouldn't do to act even more like the witch he probably thought she was.

"Before we knew what Castiel was, you were all gung-ho to summon him," Sam continued. "You couldn't _wait_ to get to the bottom of the mystery. And now that it turns out it's something you can't explain or control, you're just going to run away?"

Bela grit her teeth into a humorless smile. "Got it in one, Winchester. I don't get into any scrape I can't get out of at least ten grand richer. Anyway—putting aside hell—when's the last time an angel did anything for me?" She looked at him pointedly. "When's the last time an angel did anything for _you_?" She had gone for the low blow purely by instinct, and it worked. Sam's face crumpled—what she didn't expect was to hate herself quite so much when she saw it. Even worse was that it didn't seem to dissuade him at all.

"So what then," he said. "He's not an angel? What he's saying's not true?" Bela's eyes drifted away, towards the ceiling. "If he's lying to us, then what is he? Nothing we tried worked on him."

"I don't _know_ ," she said, her gaze cutting back towards him. "I just know he was an incredibly irritating—thing." Sam chewed the inside of his cheek and looked away. "What? You called him a _thing_ first, not me. He didn't seem to like that too much, by the way."

"No, I just..." But he didn't finish, just let the sentence hang there, like he'd forgotten he'd even begun speaking. His expression had changed now, settled into something more quiet. Something like the face of the old woman who used to sit in front of Bela in St. Michael's and take the Host in trembling hands. He exhaled briefly through his nose and linked his hands together. She started at how much they resembled her own, pieces of paper folding together as she waited in the confessional for the father's blessing. "He said you saw him in his true form. I wanted to ask you... what did he look like?"

She stiffened. For as long as she could she'd tried to forget that

_(Presence)_

sensation of memory and delusion being ripped apart, crushed as easily as cobwebs in a child's fist. The pain more mental than matter—she didn't think a single part of the creature was actually physical matter, any more than the stars in the sky were supposed to be fireflies—but just as excruciating, because the truth (that she was _Bela_ , not _Bee_ ) was so convicting. If everyone could see an angel, there wouldn't be any war or murder; anyone who wasn't killed by the sight straightaway would simply fall down and worship it like God. If everyone could see an angel, no one would ever try to lie and reason and weasel their way out of the truth like she was now.

She grasped the edges of her jacket, and her knuckles glowed nearly white in the darkness of the Impala. "A fucking nightmare," she muttered. "That's what."

Sam was watching her face carefully, saying nothing. She returned his look imperiously, ignoring the _stutter-stop-stutter-stop_ of her heart (coming back from hell had left her constantly on the edge of going fucking mad). His hand rose to brush away a piece of hair in his eyes—stupidly, intensely hazel, almost as much as Castiel's had been blue—and for the first time he no longer looked like death warmed over. He looked like the boy she had first met, over forty years ago. The boy that was innocent despite the world's evil. He directed his gaze out the windshield, towards nothing at all that Bela could see.

"What?" Bela demanded. Sam shrugged.

"I don't know. I guess I just wish I could have been there."

"You are positively mental," she told him. "And what about Dean? Are we just going to forget about him to embark on this stupid angel quest?" She didn't mean _we_ in the literal sense, hoped Sam wouldn't take it that way, but the young hunter didn't seem to notice.

"I haven't forgotten about Dean," he said. His voice was hard, like it was fashioned of stone. "I'm still going to get him out. But now Castiel can help me."

"He said—"

"I know what he said." That stone went to granite. "But after everything I've tried... the angels really are all I have. I mean, I barely talked to him. Maybe he has information for me. Some other way I can penetrate hell."

She wasn't going to prick his bubble. "And what was that other thing, anyway," she said. "That last thing he said—you needing to _cease your secret activities_ , or whatever? I mean, not that I care, I really don't, but if it's masturbation—"

"It's nothing." Sam shook his head as if he was trying to brush away a thought. "And anyway, it's over with." He sighed. "You're not staying to help me and Bobby, are you." It wasn't a question. "When are you leaving?"

She saw no point in lying. "Tonight, if I can hack it."

"Do you have a plan? Any way that demons aren't going to keep hunting you? You have to understand, if all this _virtuous woman_ stuff is true, you're going to have a very hard time making like Elvis and disappearing to Michigan. They'll never stop looking for you."

"You don't know a thing about me. I'm like smoke. I'm like mist. I'm like—" She sighed, infuriated. "I'm like someone who needs to borrow Bobby's house tonight so I can figure out how to do literally _anything_ but what some crazy arsehole in a trenchcoat ordered me to do," she muttered.

Sam gave her a dry _fuck you_ look. Or maybe just a dry _I think that's a bad idea_ look. Either way, it was dry. His jaw worked for a moment before he raised his hand in surrender. But all he said was "Don't you believe in anything?"

"Sure," Bela said. "I believe in money."

This said automatically, without even thinking; all part and parcel of the role she played. It was the answer both of them expected to hear, and Sam shrugged it off like water. Like maybe he didn't give a damn about the role. "No, I'm asking you a real question," he said, looking at her like he was some Jehovah's Witness.

"And I'm giving you a real answer," Bela sneered.

"You think you were saved for no reason at all, other than being part of some prophecy. That there's no truth to Castiel believing that you're the Virtuous Woman."

"Less than an hour ago you were telling me _exactly_ how virtuous I was." These words, too, were grit out before she could stop them—and why, when he'd already apologized? Why was _this_ the thing that struck a nerve? What a splendid idiot she was. "I don't care what some man claiming to be an angel thinks of my virtue. _Virtuous woman_ , what the fuck does that even _mean?_ I lost my virtue when I was—"

She shut the _fuck_ up before she could get within a country mile of the subject. Sam's eyebrows raised and he looked concerned; could he hear how that _stutter-stop_ had ceased entirely in her heart? More than that, she hated that expression on his face now—that empty, useless expression. What did he have to be concerned about? She hadn't told him anything. And even if she did, was he going to help her?

Of course not. No one ever did.

_It wasn't your fault._

She didn't hate it on Castiel, but that was different. Fuck him too, anyway. The last thing she wanted were new responsibilities, new obligations to a world that had never cared. _We let you out of hell, now you have to do our bidding!_ If that was always the plan, then maybe she didn't ask to be saved. Maybe she'd rather be in the bloody pit right now, watching Dean Winchester stretched over a rack after refusing to bring the scythe down on her soul-flesh—

"Bela," Sam was saying. "Bela!"

He was shaking her. Shaking her awake. Not hard, not forcefully, but doing it. She was aware of his nearness, comfortable and unwanted. He smelled like _Sam_ , and he also smelled like wood. The wood reminded her of a place she had gone to as a child in Lancashire, a library or pub or something that was very old and had many books. "What happened?" she muttered beneath fluttering, too-blinking eyelashes. The air felt fried, like someone had been cooking inside the Impala. Cooking human flesh.

"You... I don't know," Sam said. He drew back by slow inches to regard her. That look of concern was gone now, replaced by some other emotion, an emotion she couldn't place. "You just... zoned out." He let go of her arms and scrubbed a weary hand over his chin, held it there like it might fall without his effort. "Look, I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "This is all a lot to take in. And yeah, you can stay at Bobby's tonight if you want. He'll complain, but it shouldn't be a problem."

"Okay." She felt too mute to thank him, nearly sagged back into his arms. She would have driven those same arms away with a hellcat's strength if they had dared to come an inch closer of their own volition. Her life was a contradiction, that way.

* * *

Bela couldn't sleep.

She was holed up in a junked '84 Cadillac Fleetwood that Bobby had long ago given up to the elements and allowed to sit rusting on his lot for the last decade. She had chosen to sleep in the car for a second night in order to compound the sliver of goodwill she'd been storing up with the older hunter, who indeed complained about her staying ("how do I know she's not going to walk outta here with half my inventory?" — "Bobby, where is she going to go with all that stuff?" — "I don't know, but I'm not putting anything past her!" — " _must_ you two talk about me as if I'm not right here?") but who was satisfied enough at the prospect of her taking up in a car that couldn't go anywhere on account of it didn't have wheels, an engine, or even a steering wheel.

Sam hadn't been happy about the arrangement, had said something about a bunk bed upstairs that was reserved for him and his brother, but the idea of sleeping in Dean Winchester's sheets was so unsettling that Bela had nearly turned on her heels and headed outside to find a doghouse to bed down in. At last Sam had let her go, but not without carrying out a pillow and a pile of quilts, freshly laundered but wilted with age. (Just like everything else in Bobby Singer's house, it seemed. The man was rusting along with the cars.) He'd also placed several six-packs of seltzer water in the boot, after hearing Bela complain about her ungodly thirst. Bela had already finished off one of the packs.

She stared at the holes in the cabin ceiling. They looked like they had been burned there by cigarettes. She was certain that if she watched them long enough, she could see the thin fabric of the ceiling ripple and melt into human skin, the holes widening—her own eyes widening, too—until they were gaping red mouths with teeth, drooling pus and weeping saliva, eager for her to be shoved inside them piece by dripping pie

But they didn’t, and the ceiling was just a ceiling. _Don't think about it_ , she told herself, suddenly angry at her weakness _. Think about something from before. Something safe._

The ocean. It didn't matter where. All that mattered was that wherever she went it was big and blue and impossibly beautiful. Her parents had dragged her all over the world's beaches in their twin pursuit of pleasure and business: the long spit of land that was Christchurch, Dorset; the white-sanded Grace Bay Beach, pride of the Turks and Caicos islands; the stretch of sand along Myrtle Beach where a tacky yellow Crazy Mouse coaster that bore screaming children through the air sat within driving distance (her father never took her). Her favorites were the ones she sought herself, hoarded like a secret treasure, tiny beaches like those in Rhode Island, which you had to climb over perilous rock to reach and were drowning in red tide so soupy the thought of walking in it put one in mind of slopping through a thick satisfying porridge.

Of course, even hell had ruined this sanctuary. The soup heated to a rolling boil and now she could see her feet stepping out and disappearing into the red, oozing into it like hot glue, melting into her knees, folding into her waist... Bela took her mind away before anything above her neck could turn into jelly.

With nowhere left to turn her thoughts, Bela was forced to do what Sam had said. _Let the angel in._

Most of the lessons she'd been made to learn in church never sunk in—at twelve she was already either checked out or sneaking out with one or two of the older girls to bum a smoke or get high. But there'd never been a time she didn't know about angels. The nuns in catechism spoke of angels that were guardians. _Angel of God, my guardian dear_ , they sang, their voices cheeping like insipid birds, nevertheless one day waking her from a stupor born of trying to unmake the moment her father's hands first roved over her. _To whom God's love commits me here. Ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide._

Suppose Castiel had been watching, those times her father came to her. Watching with those impassive, pitiless eyes and not lifting a single feather to help.

Watching while she'd said those words, whispered them in her head, over and over and over.

The early-autumn air fell to a winter's chill. Bela pulled the threadbare quilts tighter around herself. _No_ , she thought. _I'm thinking of his—vessel. That's not really what he looks like._

Imagining several thousand eyes really wasn't any better.

She tried instead to remember what it was like being taken from hell. Couldn't. Which just figured, didn't it? That she'd remember all the years of torture, all the pain, and not a single second of the actual rescue.

These angels. Heaven. It was all a farce.

And even still, she foolishly hoped. The only reason she didn't tear out of here like a bat out of... well... in Sam's brother's precious car, in fact. And how stupid was he, really, to just leave it out here with her? He thought she couldn't hotwire it and come roaring out of here inside of a minute? That she really wouldn't—

No. Sam wasn't stupid. Quite the opposite.

Because he _knew,_ somehow, didn't he? That she wanted the same thing he did.

Bela's thoughts pulled away, lifted. Drifted like a splinter on an ocean tide, until she was swept into the moment she had hoped never to revisit for the rest of her natural life: the moment she palavered with a creature so outside her small, mean sphere of survival that her mind was surely and irrevocably altered. Not Castiel the man-claiming-angel, but Castiel the Presence, the thing so ineffable she could only call him It. Her fingers crept up her arm until they found the impression of the handprint on her shoulder, red and raised and forever-there. The fingers of her other hand rose to brush the window of the Cadillac—but instead of stained and rusting glass, her touch registered lacquered black marble, reflecting her own tear-stained face, the face of someone who possibly deserved to be loved. Who possibly could be—

_Could be virtuous_ , a small, girlish voice said.

Bela shuddered. The shudder ran through her arm, into the handprint-bearing shoulder.

It was a foolish delusion. No doubt about that. But it was all she had.

And she knew, then. She wasn't going anywhere.

_Damn it all. Damn it to fucking hell._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and the previous chapter) were beta'd by [Kyasarin X](http://www.fanfiction.net/~kyasarinx).

The weather still bore the edges of a night spent in fog and rain when Sam made his way over to the Cadillac the next morning, carrying a sack of fast food and a mug of coffee. The thunderstorm engendered by Castiel's summoning had seemed to follow him and Bela all the way to Bobby's, after quieting down just long enough for the two of them to have their conversation about faith, destiny, and doing the right thing (three things he was pretty sure never popped up as conversation topics at Bela Talbot's dinner parties). There hadn't been much opportunity—or maybe desire—to say anything else as the Impala moved through sheets of rain, which drove against the car's roof and windows with enough force to mute human voices. 

_Still. The way she froze out when I talked to her. That wasn't normal._

That thought occurred again to Sam as he reached the ancient lemon, his boots squishing and squelching in the mud beneath the gray light of dawn. He needed to be more gentle, he reminded himself. That thought sounded pretty insulting on its face; but as much as Bela didn't need or want pity, there wasn't a person on this earth who couldn't benefit from a little gentleness. Especially someone he'd bitched out in a move of terrifically poor judgment.

It was still raw, the feeling. The rage that had animated his body—resurrected the living corpse he'd been for the last three months, before it fled him in one single, sickening rush—had frightened even him. The things he had said... he hadn't meant them, but the anger was real. So was the resentment; and later, the despair. He hadn't slept well after Castiel's pronouncement— _hadn't slept at all_ , wracked with noiseless tears in Dean's old bunk until Bobby finally came and tapped gently at the door. Sam buried himself deeper in the sheets that Dean used to throw over Sam's head and said that he was fine, he didn't need Bobby to lose any sleep over him.

Bobby grunted back that he wasn't sleeping anyway. And Sam had walked around the house with him for the next hour, organizing the books Bobby had taken down into meticulously labeled piles. (An old instinct guided him to the one place on Bobby's bookshelf where his younger self had squirreled away the few slim volumes the older hunter had on the theology of angels; the softcover _Angels and Demons,_ by a Dr. Peter Kreeft, was one Bobby had never opened but Sam had worn nearly to pieces over years of visits to "Uncle Bobby's.") The distraction, and the old man's company, had done some good.

He had to concede, too, that Bela just made things _hard_. But that was Bela for you. Tipping you a devil-may-care grin as she ran off with all your money, practically inviting you to call her a bitch. (Which Dean _did_. In droves.) Still, there was less of that attitude now that she was back; or at least, it came in a more subdued flavor. _From **piss off and die** to just **piss off**_ , he thought. He wasn't sure he liked that. Even less did he like the reason for it.

If hell could do that to _Bela_ , then—

_No. No._

His footsteps became leaden. When he came around to the trunk he made a perfunctory inspection of the six-packs. He saw that of the half-dozen he'd brought out in Bobby's extra cooler, only three remained. He had no idea how many times Bela might have left the car to pick a path through the muddy autumn leaves towards the little-used outhouse. 

Even after Bobby's warning, it had been a shock to see her: whole and alive and not-mauled by hellhounds so badly the individual pieces had to be recovered from an evidence locker in Erie, Pennsylvania. After that, it just felt strange. She was barefaced, without a trace of the meticulously applied lipstick and mascara that had so seemed to define her and her aspirations to perfect (and perfectly unruffled) appearances in life _._ Not only that, she seemed even smaller in the men's army jacket he'd found her wearing, and which she continued to wear even now.

Sam peered in the Cadillac's window, careful not to disturb the salt line poured around the car's perimeter. Through the smeary glass he could sketch out the dark shape of Bela sprawled across the backseat. His mind, unbidden, alighted on further details the longer he gazed down on her: her hair spilled in dark, tangled tresses across the landscape of Bobby's old cotton pillow, her long lashes closed softly over grey-blue eyes, her harsh ( _but still beautiful_ , his traitorous mind insisted) lips parted around soft, undisturbed breaths. She didn't look like someone who had shot him in the shoulder— _barely grazed him_ , in her words—then tried to kill him just under a year later, or even the high-flying socialite who probably dominated black-tie banquets and art museum fundraisers when she wasn't robbing them blind. (Dean used to like to talk about _that crazy Picasso art, or was it Dali_ that he'd seen in her apartment.) Looking at her now, she was like a lost girl, or a waif. 

It took Sam several moments to realize he was staring. _Wow,_ he thought, suddenly chastened _. I'm a creep._ And all the while, the greasy sack of fast food was getting greasier and colder in his arms. Sam ducked his head to survey the contents; he'd realized once he was in front of the McDonald's drive-through menu that he had no idea what Bela liked to eat. There was a sausage biscuit (if she was okay with meat), a plain Egg McMuffin (if she was a vegetarian), and a fish filet sandwich (if she tolerated neither eggs nor meat but had somehow muddled through all that to become a pescatarian).

Sam sighed. He really wished he'd thought this through. The young hunter shifted the coffee and food to one arm, rapped softly on the window. He didn't want to startle her. "Bela," he said.

At first she didn't stir, and he said her name again. He was just wondering if he should leave and come back when there was a soft muttering on the other side of the rusted paneling, followed by the _pop_ of the door lock being pulled up. The door came open an inch and no further. After a moment's hesitation, Sam reached out and eased the door the rest of the way, whereupon Bela Talbot nearly tumbled into a sitting position before him, the quilt that Sam used to requisition for pillow forts falling over her shoulders like a shawl.

"Hi, Bela," Sam said.

Bela smiled at him. The look on her face was unguarded, with the last traces of sleep slipping away from her eyes; she appeared nearly beatific. Sam's throat constricted and he found he couldn't speak. _She never needed the makeup,_ some voice inside his head vaguely supplied, and even then he recognized it for the understatement it was. 

And then Bela's smile retreated to a small, mischievous grin. "Good morning, Robin," she said.

Sam stood there, staring. Like an idiot. _So: not unguarded at all._ "Are you all right?" Bela said—not asked, because it wasn't a question. "You look rather flustered."

It took a moment for Sam to find his voice. "Please tell me you're not making that a thing," he finally said.

She looked at him mildly, as if the idea had never sprung into her head but now that it had, it deserved serious consideration. "But I thought Robin was the plucky boy genius," she said, batting her eyes at him. 

It took everything in Sam's power not to roll his own. "No, he was an acrobat," he muttered.

"So you're saying you're _not_ a plucky boy genius?"

"Bela—"

"Okay, okay." She gave a conciliatory wave of her hand at him. "I jest. Probably too early in the morning for us to tangle." She brightened with interest when she saw what he was carrying. "Is that for me?"

Sam considered that the whole reason he'd come out here was to feed Bela. But there was something else he was banking on in the back of his mind, and something about what she'd just said tugged it into the forefront. "So if I'm Robin, are you still Batman?" he asked. Bela blinked and frowned, and he clarified. "Did you give any more thought to what we talked about last night?"

"Oh, right on to the business, then." Bela's tone was still light, but her eyes looked troubled and she had begun to worry her bottom lip. "I don't know, can't a girl get a coffee and a smoke before she worries about whether or not she's going to stop a demon from destroying the world?"

"You're stalling," Sam said. "But fair enough."

He handed over the mug of coffee—freshly made in Bobby's kitchen, using the French press Sam mail-ordered for him the year his crappy dollar-store coffee maker broke down for the fifth time—and she took it without a word, drinking deeply of it like it was water. Her expression turned downright quizzical, though, when Sam held out the paper bag to her and she saw the cheerful golden arches festooning the sides. She opened the bag and pulled out the first sandwich, the biscuit, staring at it as if she had no idea what it was.

"I have never eaten this before," she informed him gravely.

Sam was torn between offering to take her to a real coffeeshop and making some smartass comment about how he couldn't exactly wrangle up a goblet of caviar (or whatever former female Bond villains ate) at this hour, when she suddenly tore the wax paper off the biscuit and took an enormous bite.

"Of course," she explained between unladylike munches, chasing the food down with more gulps of coffee, "I'm living out of a car and dressing like a vagrant, and I've never done _that_ before, either." 

Sam ducked his head so she wouldn't see him smile. 

Bela ate the biscuit and the fish sandwich in rapid succession. Either she had no qualms about meat consumption, or hell had simply been a great leveler of all human preferences, including dietary. Sam blinked when she shoved the bag, still containing the McMuffin, back into his arms.

"You don't want it?" Then: "You don't eat eggs," he guessed. 

"What?" She stared. "No, you fool. If I eat meat, you can bloody well expect I'll eat eggs. It's just..." Her voice trailed off for a moment, then picked back up in strength. "...just, you haven't got any food for yourself."

Was that it? It was such a simple reason, but it was so— _not Bela._ "I already ate," Sam explained. "So you're welcome to it. Really."

This time he couldn't hide his smile, and Bela reddened before snatching the bag back. She ate more daintily now, more quietly. Sam stepped away to give her privacy and watched as the red fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, seeking the clouds, penetrating the dull gray light of the morning. The air sat in his lungs like a lump.

Could Dean see this, somehow? This sky that was draining away towards daylight, making the faded cars to shine with short-lived glory, a sky made utterly different because angels were walking beneath it again. This moment, his brother standing in mud and his shoes sodden with last night's rain, consorting with an enemy even worse than Gordon Walker, because Gordon Walker had at least believed in something and Bela Talbot didn't believe in anything, only money, except Sam knew it wasn't true, was betting everything on it—

Bela said something, but Sam didn't catch it. He asked her to repeat it.

"I _said_." Bela wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her face was thoughtful, unhappy. "I'll help you and Bobby. And Castiel."

Sam inhaled. The lump in his lungs came free. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't you dare thank me," she returned. "I'm not doing it for you. I'm not even doing it for him. I'm—"

"No," he said, "I get it. I still... it's appreciated."

Her smile at him was wan. "I reserve the right to abort at any time, of course. I reserve the right to tell our angel where he can shove his prophecies. And I _most assuredly_ reserve the right to call you whatever I want, up to and including _Robin_."

"Just as long as I'm not calling you Batman."

Bela shouldered on her jacket as if she hadn't heard him and stood abruptly. "Now kindly get out of my way," she said, dropping the spent bag on the seat behind her. "I want to brush my teeth."

* * *

The water pressure was still abysmal, and no one was going to be writing home about the decor in Bobby's loo. Bela still treasured the shower and fresh toothpaste like they were the several million dollars she was supposed to earn offloading that accursed rabbit's foot. 

So many things, now, that she appreciated rather than turned her nose up at. Like McDonald's, that fare so typical of the Standard American Diet, and a meal so cheap that the receipt at the bottom of Sam's bag—a curly twist of paper pockmarked with grease—read _$6.42_. It was still fucking delicious and she couldn't wait to have it again. Not that she was going to tell him that.

There was no one to not tell anything, though; Sam had immediately retired to the upstairs bedroom when she stepped into Bobby's house to use the shower, and he wasn't there when she came out of the bathroom. She was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, hastily run through Bobby's washer and dryer (she declined to mention they were a bit itchy to avoid arousing the old man's ire). Bobby explained that the young hunter was taking a phone call, although Sam had declined to say who was calling other than _some girlfriend_. Bobby didn't realize how troubled his own face looked at the last, but Bela did.

Bela didn't think she blamed him. She didn't know Sam Winchester very well, but one thing she did know that he probably wasn't the James Bond type, prone to love and leaveat the drop of a hat. It was out of character for him. A role better left to... his brother. 

_(Don't objectify me._ This said in another lifetime, with another _Dean—)_

"So you're helping us," Bobby said, in a welcome change of subject. He didn't sound particularly grateful. "What brought on the attack of conscience?"

Bela shrugged. "What can I say? Hell and a good night's sleep does things to a girl."

It was a non-answer, and Bobby accorded it the respect it deserved. He grunted and turned away, moving into the library. "Come on, then," he threw over his shoulder when she didn't follow. "We gotta hit the books." Bela remained still.

"I had a better idea," she said. Bobby paused by the bookshelf and crossed his arms, shooting a look at her that said he doubted that very much. "These seals Castiel wants us to protect. There's a good chance I can find them. If I, you know... ask around."

For a moment the innuendo escaped Bobby. Then his arms fell and his eyebrows drew together with disbelief at her audacity. "So God gives you a mission, and the first place your mind goes to is _Ouija board_?" He shook his head fiercely. "No. Not happening. That's a good way to get smote by an angel."

"Castiel needs me," she demurred. "I'll ask for forgiveness later. And anyway, communing with the dead is the easiest thing in the world for me. I would just need a few of your ingredients—some castor oil and black cat hair would be a good start—"

That was a mistake. "I wouldn't even trust you with my _books_ if Sam didn't vouch for you," Bobby said, in a growl that was closer to a roar. "Now maybe if we had no other leads I'd consider it, but until I know for sure you're not going to sell off all my valuables to the highest bidder, or that your angel isn't going to introduce a plague on my household, we're walking the straight and narrow."

"But—"

" _But nothing_ , princess. House rules."

Bela nearly made a petulant sound. Was the old man this stubborn with the Winchesters? _Probably more_ , she suspected _._ "Fine," she said, lifting a hand to throw back a snarl of wet hair that had fallen in her eyes, dampened the force of her glare. "We'll do things the pure, righteous, _utterly ineffective_ way." 

Bobby ignored her sarcasm. "That's what I like to hear," he snorted. 

He waved her towards the bookshelf again, like she was the aforementioned princess and he her extremely prickly bodyguard. Bela shot him one more withering glance before stepping up to the dusty shelves, which once more put her in mind of Lancashire. Her eye was drawn to one shelf, overflowing with all manner of tomes, from trade paperbacks on killing werewolves and finding leprechaun gold to glossaries with spines so leathery and worn she was sure cracking them open would result in a sound like a gunshot.

She squinted at the mess. "Did you rob a bookstore recently? There must be at least twice the number of books since I was last here."

"Try library booksale," Bobby replied. "You'd be amazed at how much pure gold people throw out. Some of that information could have saved lives." He gave a long, put-upon sigh, thumbed up his cap to scratch behind his ear. Bela, for her part, tried to make herself useful in the fashion Bobby had prescribed—running her fingers over spines in search of titles that looked promising in lieu of talking to the few creatures who _would_ know where or what these seals were—but she wasn't even sure where to start. Maybe with angels. 

Unsurprisingly, Bobby had many, many books on demons; but very few on angels. Bela was about to turn her sights to some other subject when she saw the edge of a small pile of paperbacks and softcovers, sticking out beyond the top of the shelf like a bookmark made to save one's place. A cursory examination revealed titles like _Miracles, Orthodoxy,_ and _Angels and Demons: What Can We Know About Them?_

"Those probably won't help you much," Bobby's voice echoed behind her. "Not much practical lore in them. They're just books Sam reads for fun."

Bela nodded and replaced the books. In addition to the foxing and splotches each book bore—most of them couldn't have been published later than the seventies—there was something distastefully personal about touching them. But they recalled to her mind the set of Sam's jaw, the determined narrowing of his eyes, as he'd asked:

_Don't you believe in anything?_

"Is Sam... religious?"

She had no idea why that particular amalgamation of words was leaving her mouth. Didn't know why it should have mattered to her. Bobby, who had sat down to pore over a stack of books on his lap, looked just as surprised, and she suddenly guessed he didn't know any more than she did. "Religious? I don't know about that," he started—almost dismissively, and then he seemed to think it over. "Well, he did always look up to Jim Murphy—that's John Winchester's friend, a pastor—and I made sure to keep a stack of theology books for when John brought the boys around. Other than that, I couldn't tell you. He wouldn't have gotten it from his daddy, that's for sure."

There was something dark in his eyes as he said that. "I don't know much about John," Bela said. _Other than where his storage lock-up is_ , she didn't add.

Bobby raised his head by increments to give her a wary look and didn't say anything. Maybe the same thought had passed through his head. Returning to her inspection of the books, Bela asked:

"Where's this Pastor Jim now?"

"You're full of questions." But Bobby didn't seem annoyed. He wet his thumb and separated two bologna-thin pages in his book that had stuck together. "Dead," he said at length. "Died ugly, too. It was a demon got him. Same demon that came here and killed my dog."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it. Bela liked animals. 

The old man gave a noncommittal grunt, but there was still sadness in it. "It was before you came here last. We exorcised it right here in the living room, but the girl—Meg Masters—she didn't survive the exorcism. It's still out there." Bela felt the weight of the old man's gaze on her back, and she turned to meet his eyes, which had filled with concern. "If you really plan on stopping Lilith, you'd better watch your back. She was high up on the food chain—high enough to walk right into Jim's church and spill his blood. I wouldn't be surprised if Lilith sends her after you." 

Bela smiled. "That's reassuring."

Sam chose that moment to appear in the doorway. The young hunter leaned against the threshold with his left hand on the frame, pocketing his cell phone with his right. He seemed agitated, spring-coiled, like he needed to take a running leap and there was nowhere to do it.

As if to bear out that thought, Sam spoke. "Hey guys," he said. Then, without waiting for a return greeting: "Bobby, I'm going to get a soda. Do you want anything?"

"We have soda here," Bobby protested. But the expectant expression just held on Sam's face. He was either really thirsty, Bela thought, or he was a liar. Her mind went to the phone call, to girlfriends or one-night stands or whatever Bobby thought he was up to. Not that _she_ cared.

Then she remembered what Castiel had said. His prohibition. Was Sam going to go do... that?

"We can't waste any time," Bobby was saying now. "Take a squat and help us go through this stuff."

"I will. I promise." Sam looked more contrite than he perhaps should have. "I just—I want to get that local root beer I like. I didn't see any in your cooler."

Bobby swept his hand up. He didn't say anything, but the sentiment was clear enough: _Okay, okay, but hurry it up._ Sam sent him a grateful smile and dove back into his pockets for his keys. "Bela, do you want anything?" he asked, fishing out the car key and pushing the door open with his unoccupied hand.

"I'll take a gin and tonic." He looked up sharply. _"Pepsi,"_ she amended. "Six-pack."

"And I guess some Slim-Jims, if you're going to be out there," Bobby said.

Sam nodded. "Got it."

"I'd fancy a piece of cake, too," Bela called after his retreating back. "Robin."

His returning groan was sweeter than music.

* * *

Sam lingered outside the diner while the Impala idled, staring at his hands and growing increasingly possessed of the feeling that he should leave.

He wondered, not for the first time, if this was even the right place. The directions he'd been given had taken him right up to the town line, nearly into Brandon. No matter how scared she'd sounded on the phone, it seemed like overkill. He raised his eyes and tracked them across the diner's wraparound porch, where families waited on benches for seating and a couple of old men in rocking chairs played from an antique chess set. They stopped when they reached the menu, posted in large print by the entrance. A sign affixed to the top proclaimed in even bigger letters: 

TRY OUR NEW LOADED FRIES FOR A BUCK EXTRA. CHEESE, BACON, CHIVES, AND SOUR CREAM!

Sam fetched up a sigh so deep that it seemed to come from his toes. Yeah, this was the place.

The realization seemed to have summoned her, as suddenly the fall of her hair moved into the nearmost window, a dark silhouette among the vague shapes of diners. An instant later and she was through the door, closing the distance fast. Sam switched off the ignition and got out to meet her.

Ruby stalked over to him. Which was something Ruby did a lot; Dean probably would have pegged her for a demon right away, new meatsuit or no. 

That final admission dragged into the harsh and stultifying light the words he had been trying not to think about all morning—the words that made him want to shrivel up and die, or retreat into the bottom of a hundred liquor bottles, whichever guaranteed oblivion first. _Dean Winchester was not saved._ He hadn't made the cut, not according to the prophecy; wasn't good enough to be the Righteous One who would take down Lilith, never mind that he'd done nothing but try to stop the mother of demons and her minions while he had life in him. 

If he was his brother, he would have put it all down to a cruel joke—he could already hear Dean in his head shouting _in what bizarro-world scenario is **Bela Talbot** the one handpicked by angels to save the world_—but he couldn't do that. Not even these last few months of no sleep, nightmares, whiskey benders, and obsessive training with Ruby could push him that far. 

Because the angels _did_ exist, and he'd met one of them. Castiel was one of the good guys. Sam was just sure of it. He could feel it pouring off of him as the angel touched his broken arm, the cold but pure light of benevolence, _peace on earth, good will to men._ The strange and high whispers of a far-off choir, singing his pain away, making him forget, if just for a moment. And under that, the deeper marrow of sorrow for Dean— _personal_ sorrow, not distant regret—as it seeped into his bones, knit them back together.

(Less considered was the sudden, stark horror that the angel might know _him_ in turn, and how that holy light had touched the flesh of Azazel's boyking. Maybe that was why he had struck him to begin with; had snapped his arm like a splinter, before Sam could use it for the cursed instrument it was.)

Even Bela, for all her bluster and bravado—a bluster and bravado that put him remarkably in mind of _Dean—_ was not unaffected. That had to mean something. His faith of twenty years had been, if not quite rewarded, then... answered. And taking down Lilith was a request he was only too happy to honor; it had only been his life's purpose for the last three months, after all other roads to save Dean had led to walls he couldn't scale, chasms he couldn't bridge. (A crossroads demon who wouldn't deal and a thousand useless books that might as well have been titled _Get Fucked, Winchester._ )He'd stop Lilith from breaking any seals, and in the meantime, he'd be doing everything he could to save his brother.

He _would_ get Dean out. He would. But he'd do it right. He'd do it clean. 

Before, he'd had nothing: nothing but Ruby (she wasn't _nothing_ , he wasn't sure what she was) and the ugly spectre of revenge, watered daily with his hatred. Now, he was freshly innervated with the feeling of new hope, a new purpose.

_If only Dean was here—_

"So did my info check out? Was he the one that went downstairs?"

Sam nodded. "It was Castiel." 

Ruby stared. "And?"

Sam held her gaze for a beat. "He's an angel," he said.

Ruby's eyes blinked black. She huffed, hugely. " _Well._ That's good to know." And then whirled around, stalking back towards the diner like she'd seen the loaded fries announcement. "It was nice knowing you, Sam, see you _never_ —"

"Whoa, whoa, wait!" He seized her arm, unthinkingly. She could have thrown him halfway across the parking lot if she'd wanted—breaking his back nearly in half on a random windshield for good measure—but all she did was stop where she was and throw him a look. "What's going on, Ruby?"

"Sam," she said patiently. Like he was a very dumb child. "They're _angels._ What do you think they're going to do when they see something like me?"

"But you're just trying to he—"

"How sweet of you," Ruby said. "No, Sam, they don't care if I'm helping. They smite first, ask questions later."

She turned again to leave. Sam walked with her, struggling to maintain pace as she marched around the diner's wraparound porch; at least she didn't seem inclined to throw him several hundred feet. "Are you saying you've met angels before?"

"No," Ruby said. "For two reasons. One: I'd be dead. And two: if by some miracle I _wasn't_ dead, I would have told you. No, this is totally new to me. I know only what I've heard. And I do not want to fuck with an angel."

"Well, you don't have to," Sam said. "Because there's something I need to tell you. The exorcism training—it's a no-go. Castiel told me to stop."

Now Ruby _did_ halt, so suddenly that Sam nearly walked into her. She turned and favored him with an incredulous look. "So you're going to stop doing the first productive thing you ever did since Dean died just because you're scared of angels?"

"I'm not scared of angels," Sam said quietly. Which wasn't really true, now that he'd met one, but he needed some part of Ruby's assertions to be wrong. After all the disappointment, all the pain, he needed a win. "I mean—that's not why I'm stopping. I just... it's the right thing to do."

"You don't think _saving people_ is the right thing to do?" Ruby crossed her arms. That incredulous look had graduated to one of dull surprise, as if to say that as little as she expected from a Winchester, she still never could have predicted that he would stoop so low. Sam hated to admit that it got to him when Ruby pulled one of her cards from that deck. "Or—oh, let me guess. You think what we do is _dirty_ and _wrong_ and it sucks _so much_ that I drag you down to my level."

Sam felt his face redden. "That is not what this is about, Ruby. And anyway, what else can I do? Castiel said that Lilith was up to something, something big, and he needs my help to stop it. That's the whole reason he went to hell in the first place. Bela's supposed to be the key in all this. He called her the Virtuous Woman." He could feel the disdain baking off of Ruby's form as he spoke—spiking sharply on those last two words—and he added, more forcefully: "I'll need Castiel, too."

"Did Castiel even offer to help you save Dean?"

"No," Sam admitted. "I... not yet. He said only one could be saved. But I'm sure he could point me in the right direction. I mean, now that we know it's possible to pull a soul from the pit... that's the other reason I need to stop the training."

"Sure," Ruby said. "That, and not being associated with my kind."

" _Ruby_ ," Sam said. "You know I've always hated drinking the—you know what, look." He stopped, held out his hands in surrender. His heart was beating very hard, as if Castiel had heard his crime and was coming down that moment to strike him dead. "We can't talk about this here. Maybe it's good that we take a break." He reached into his coat pocket with one hand and held out a little silver Motorola. "I'll keep this burner so you have my number—"

Ruby glowered. "Forget it, Sam. When I want you, I'll find you."

She stormed away before Sam could even think to mutter an answering "fine."

* * *

Bela wrinkled her nose as Sam walked through Bobby's door and dropped a plastic container on the leatherbound encyclopedia that had taken place of pride among the dusty old books on the older hunter's kitchen table. "I didn't ask for pie," she said.

"Force of habit." Sam barely looked at her. "Dean's favorite."

Bela goggled. "You buy pie for a dead man?"

Sam shrugged. He pulled out a chair and fell into it, long lanky limbs spreading out like tentacles to occupy all the empty space around him. Out in the Singer's Salvage lot the ugly trees were graduating to even uglier—a profusion of rust-colored leaves the old man hadn't bothered to clear away rested on the rain-soaked ground like a moat—and the younger Winchester stared out the window at them. His shaggy hair fell into his eyes, and when he didn't brush it away through force of habit Bela had the insane urge to do it for him. 

"Something bothering you?" she asked, trying for a tone of _couldn't care less._ Wherever he'd been, it had left him worse for the wear.

Sam sent her a sharp look without moving his head. Mostly he just looked resigned. Bela considered that maybe she was wrong, then—maybe he hadn't gone anywhere strange. Maybe he'd just remembered that Dean Winchester was still in hell. And maybe life would always be like that for him—being okay for a while, being functional, then suddenly remembering, suddenly _feeling_. Suddenly knowing that there is a Life Before and a Life After and never can the latter hope to become the former.

Bela understood. She didn't want to _bond_ with him over it, but she understood.

_Not that Dean's the one burning anymore, anyway. More like he's the one holding the flamethr—_

She shut the words away even before she could fully comprehend the shape of them in her mind. Instead she walked over and dropped the doorstopper in Sam's lap, narrowly missing his knob. Sam's hazel eyes shot open and he nearly bolted upright in his chair.

"What the hell?"

"Start reading, Mensa Man," she said. "It's biblical, pre-biblical, and cuneiform. Any and all information about angels and what they're capable of. Maybe you can figure out how Castiel lifted me from the fireplace."

He looked down at the encyclopedia between his two large hands, but didn't open it. "Shouldn't _you_ know how he did it?" he protested, without much heat. "You were there."

Was he _trying_ to be a baby? "I don't remember a damn thing, and I don't bloody well want to," Bela said. "Besides, you look like you need a project. I didn't get the sense that Winchesters stood around waiting for orders from superior officers."

"Happened more often than you think," Sam muttered. Ah—there was the look of a smile now. Even if it was small and sardonic, she rather liked it on him. Not that she'd minded Sam Winchester's cheek in the past. _(The far, far past—_ when she could still get hot and bothered by him. She wouldn't have touched him then, either, but that was still better than the mere echoes of desire she felt now, like her senses were still in hell being hacked to pieces and sewed back together all wrong.) 

Sam was leafing through the book. He turned the pages carefully, ignoring the dust that gathered on his fingertips like Cheeto powder. Against his wishes, he was already showing interest. Good. Bela gave a self-satisfied little nod and scooped up the clamshell container of lemon meringue, turning smartly on her heels and heading into the kitchen, where Bobby had told her he would be making some calls to other hunters. She was sure to find Bobby there now, poring over names and numbers in his grubby little day planner: people to call for assistance, places to go. 

She didn't find Bobby, but there were utensils lying on the drying rack for her purposes. She took down a fork and cracked open the container.

There was a noise behind her. Bela turned instinctively at the sound. If Sam thought she was going to share her pie, he had another thing coming—

A girl stood there. 

Bela stared. The girl was young; maybe just a few years older than her, and Hispanic. Her dark hair was gathered into a braid at her back, and she was wearing a modest pink vest, beneath which peeked out the silver glint of a cross necklace. The whole picture was very Catholic schoolgirl, except for her eyebrows. They looked fantastic.

Bela didn't know her.

For a few seconds the girl regarded her with an utterly blank face. The blankness was frightening, like watching a human computer slowly reboot in front of her. Like it didn't know for what purpose it had come here and had to discover it, walking for miles and miles with nothing at all in its head, until those steps finally brought it to the wood floor of Bobby Singer's kitchen.

Bela exhaled. The breath plumed out, frostlike, between her lips. 

Something filled the girl's eyes then. Something dark and baleful and too late, _too late_ did Bela realize she should be screaming for help.

And she lunged.


End file.
